Page 63 of Babydaddy To Go

“Great,” I tell them. “As soon as you’ve finished your dessert, put it on the table. We’ll have a potluck to celebrate.”

The class cheers. One by one, they bring their finished products to the newest addition to the classroom. I had the custodian bring a long table to place between the sets of desks. I brought in soda and pizza, which we already enjoyed. Soon we’ll get the sweets that have been calling my name since everyone started baking.

When the last dish is on the table, I ask everyone to take their seats.

“It’s been a pleasure teaching all of you this year,” I begin. “You’ve all learned so much since you started the course. I have enjoyed watching you grow from day one to now.”

“Thank you, Chef,” one student calls out. The rest share his sentiment except for, of course, Samantha. She has been sulking since her ploys haven’t worked. She’s also been terrible at every dish she’s had to prepare throughout the rest of last semester and all of this semester. I even tried to work with her more than the other students to help her succeed, but it never worked. She’s just not a great chef.

“I have your grades for the course here, along with some notes on your performance. Look them over, and use my critiques to hone in on your skills even when you land jobs in restaurants. A good chef knows he or she always has room to improve.”

I hand out the report cards to each student. Once everyone has theirs, I tell them to go ahead and read them and enjoy the desserts their peers created.

“I encourage you to try at least two dishes that you didn’t prepare yourselves. Remember, you’ll likely work with pastry chefs at your restaurants, so you should get used to taste testing other people’s work.”

The students don’t need to be told twice. They hardly look at my carefully prepared grade reports before charging the long table.

Samantha is among the few who reads her report card. She finds the glaring F inside and stands from the table with an exaggerated crash. Without a word to anyone, she leaves the classroom.

Hopefully, that’s the last we’ll see of her. I won’t let my hopes get up too high, though. Lord knows that girl shows up when I least expect – and least want her to.

Alyssa is one of the other students more concerned with her grades than the desserts. I watch as she opens it to find the honors level grade at the top of her card.

She catches my eye and gasps.You deserve it, I mouth. She truly does. Not only was she the most improved student, but her dishes over the last semester were practically flawless.

I keep an eye on her as she reads through the rest of her card. Her face turns bright red when she sees my special note just for her. She closes the card quickly and slips it into her bag before joining the rest of the class.

Now that everyone has gotten their share, I venture to the table as well. I take one of everything to taste, though there’s no way I’ll be able to eat it all, as tempting as that is.

Tomorrow, the class will graduate in front of their friends and family. This party is their chance to celebrate completing the course as a group. It’s about them talking with their peers and remembering the different dishes they made throughout the year. I look on with pride as my students laugh and have a good time with each other. My heart contracts with the realization that the year really is over. These students will never be in one room with each other ever again.

I shake the thought from my head. For today, I’m going to be happy to have met these incredible students. I might even end up hiring some of them for my restaurants. They’re much more talented than I thought they were at the beginning of the course. These students surprised me in the best way.

Because half of my class is underage, I couldn’t bring champagne for the celebration. Instead, I break out bottles of sparkling cider and pour them into plastic flutes.

“To an amazing year!” I toast, holding my cup in the air.

“To an amazing instructor!” a student, Davis, shouts in response. We all laugh and sip our cider.

We enjoy our graduation party for an hour before the students clean up their stations, take their desserts, and head home to begin their job search. It’s a different feeling than the end of last semester, when we knew we would all see each other again less than a month later. This feels final, and many students linger until the last possible second so as to not lose the camaraderie they found in this class. I shake every students’ hand as they walk out the door and thank them for taking the class. Some of them respond by thanking me for teaching them to be great chefs. That’s the best reason to become a teacher – to hear students say that they learned something from you. It’s why I’ve already signed up to teach the next class of NYACA candidates in the fall.

Alyssa stays behind to help me clean up the dessert table. We work in silence for a while until she can’t bite her tongue any longer.

“What do you mean by a special graduation treat?” she asks innocently, her eyes bright.

I kiss the top of her head.

“You’ll just have to trust me.”

Alyssa pouts.

“Why can’t you tell me now?”

“You’ll see later tonight!” I assure her. “For now, James is waiting outside to take you back home so you can get ready for our big date night.”

Her face lights up.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll see you in a bit, then.”